January 20001
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Published with the belief that God acknowledges no distinction between the secular and the sacred.
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In this issue:
I really wish I was at liberty to reveal the location of Pass Creek to the many fine readers of THE CHURCHWARDEN, but this simply is not possible. Pass Creek is a small stream, absolutely loaded with trout, but it could never withstand the pressure of being in the national spotlight. So you must be content with the knowledge that such a stream exists and perhaps, within a lifetime of searching the Rocky Mountains, you might be given the grace to discover it. I mention grace because only by grace have I had the pleasure of fishing Pass Creek myself. The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform, and this particular wonder He worked through an old non-fly fishing friend named Darrin Koone.
One day last summer Darrin called me with a proposition. He wanted to learn how to fly fish and he wanted to do so in a certain western state. His offer was this: since he lacked fishing gear of any kind and possessed little knowledge of the sport, I would have to supply both the instruction and the equipment. In return he would buy my plane ticket to the western destination of his choosing. No, dear reader, your eyes do not deceive you. I was given an air fare to fish another part of the country and the "price" was a week of enjoying the fabulous Rockies while teaching one of my dearest friends the fundamentals fly fishing. For me, this single episode is indisputable proof that miracles have not ceased! After pouring over maps to the specific area we intended to visit, we established a rough game plan for a trip which included Pass Creek. I realize that some people would not deem it expedient to attempt fly fishing lessons on a small stream given the large number of aggravations that can be involved (trees, bushes, etc.), but I subscribe to the theory that fishing is the most fun when one is catching fish. Fortunately, the trout in small streams are seldom picky. I also believe that anyone who can survive a day of fishing skinny water without snapping their rod (not to mention their instructor) over their knee in frustration possesses a temperament suitable to the discipline. Plus, you find out quickly on small streams whether your fishing partner seeks relief from stress through prayer or profanity. I have met very few who can manage the artistic use of both, but for those who prefer the latter I heartily recommend a serious reading of James, chapter three.
So Pass Creek it was. The creek turned out to be a fairly typical freestone stream with its lower reach tumbling down a little valley and twisting through small canyons. There were deep runs and pools, and the abundance of boulders and logs meant plenty of places for fish to hide or flies to become lodged. Also, there was a fair population of brookies, browns and rainbows. On this section of the stream Darrin worked on reading the water and learning the critical skills of presentation and brush avoidance. He failed (flailed) miserably, yet there were still numerous hook-ups--some even with fish. His first trout was a miniature brown, about seven inches long. Not much of a trout, but maybe big enough to teach Darrin they could definitely be caught with a fly and that perhaps all his hard work would actually pay off. I mention this latter point because his frustration meter was beginning to registering much higher than his fun meter, and certain remarks by him seemed to indicate he was questioning our friendship in general and my sanity in particular.
We fished past noon, then headed back to the truck for lunch and a stream-cooled beer. It was decision time: Do we stay on Pass Creek or seek larger water and greener pastures? We decided to stay. I would like to say it was a hunch, my experience or some other such thing that led me to vote in favor of remaining but the truth is, I am just plain stubborn. I was determined Darrin and I would catch fish in Pass Creek or kill each other trying.
After lunch we worked our way upstream. As we did so we noticed several changes in the character of the stream and its surroundings, some good and some not so good. The terrain was leveling, the creek was calmer, and the rapids become riffles. This meant it was easier to get nicer, longer, drifts. Yet, the creek was getting narrower and the brush along the banks was growing thicker, more sinister looking all the time. However, the most important change came when we began to catch fish regularly: a brown here, a rainbow there, a brookie by an overhanging brush, and the fat rainbow for Darrin from a deep run. A native cutthroat or two started to show up. Suddenly, we were catching fish on every third cast. I could not believe the number of fish in this little creek. They were in every hole and most of the riffles. They were by every rock and under every limb. And they were absolutely starving! If you could land a fly on the water, you could catch them.
Landing a fly in the right place, of course, was the rub. I have heard others describe fishing in conditions like this as fishing in a tunnel. Pass Creek was more like fishing in a shotgun barrel. For every fish, we caught two trees. We resorted to the infamous bow-and-arrow cast (also known as the hook-in-thumb cast) at times, as well as those casts invented on the spot for individual holes or trees. One of my personal favorites was the just-close-your-eyes-and-pray cast. I used it repeatedly with great success. Less successful was the roll-cast-into-the-willows and the no-way-to-get-a-fly-in-there cast. This latter cast assumed no definite form but was resorted to with alarming frequency. In spite of the difficulty, fish were caught almost continuously for a space of around three hours.
Eventually the day drew towards its close. I had one Humpy left that had been chewed almost to bits by the willows and the fish. The deer hair on the back was entirely gone and the red yarn body was frayed to the point of resembling a trailing shuck or, more accurately, a small ball of yarn with wings. By coincidence, we happened upon one of the few clear openings on the stream. Up river I spied two nice fish holding near the tail of a pool, a distance of about 30 feet away. I offered Darrin the first cast but he declined because he had just invented a new knot requiring intense scientific study. I false cast a couple of times and then dropped the fly precisely where I least wanted it--about three feet behind the fish. Fortunately, it was one of those days where it really did not matter. The splash caught the attention of both trout so they turned and raced to the fly. One was hooked and the other did its best to take the fly from the one that first got it. I played both fish to my feet before number two decided there might be something wrong and scooted for the undercut bank. Turned out the hooked fish was one of the biggest native cutts of the day; he was also the last. A quick twist of the hook, a brief moment of admiration, and he was heading back to his buddy. I turned to my own buddy and told him I was done, though he was welcome to continue fishing. Darrin, too, decided to quite and we started back to the truck. On the way we discussed the day, and I congratulated Darrin on his patience and his many fish. He thanked me for my instruction and for helping him to catch more fish in one day than he had previously caught in a lifetime. And, as we quietly walked through the high-country evergreens, we both thanked God for one brief day in Pass Creek paradise.
�copyright 2001, Perry S. Fuller
